A Face To Remember
by Fernandidilly-yo
Summary: One of Peter's worst fears comes true when the teenager finds himself without a mask, and with people in need of saving...


**This is a collaboration between** **AliciaRoseFantasy (go check her out!) and I, and though it has been fun, I am so happy to have it done and posted.**

 **Thanks so much for writing this with me, my beautiful friend, you are awesome!**

 **Disclaimer- Alicia and I don't own Spidey...and that's why we cry ourselves to sleep at night... **(ಥ﹏ಥ)****

* * *

 **A Face to Remember:**

Today was not Peter's day. No, not by a long shot. J. Jonah Jameson had nearly bitten his head off earlier when he'd brought in his photos of Spider-Man, saying that they were _'crap'_ —not true, Peter's pictures were the best in the city of the wall-crawler—that they _'didn't go with the story'_ , which was true, because Jonah wanted something to incriminate Spider-Man with, but he wouldn't be getting any pictures like that. _Nope,_ not on Peter's watch—and that _'Peter wasn't trying as hard'_. True again, he guessed. Peter was tired and spread too thin lately; he hadn't had time to run around posing for pictures.

He had also been late for school this morning. He had slept through his alarm because he had only gotten two hours of sleep after getting back from having his butt kicked by Electro—not his finest moment. His body still felt a little crispy from all the electrocution he had gone through last night…

So, Peter had come running into class, with an empty stomach, hair messy, in a dirty t-shirt, bags under his eyes, his backpack slung over one shoulder, looking like the idiot he was…

The professor did not look happy. But when was anyone ever happy with Peter these days?

Afterwards, Mr. Harrison had asked to speak to him alone. He'd said that Peter had _'potential'_ , that if he just tried to apply himself he would really _'make it in life'_. And then he had said that he was disappointed to see that _'potential go to waste'_. He also added on that if Peter was going to be over ten minutes late for class then he shouldn't bother to show up at all: that it had happened multiple times this semester alone, and that he was tired of Peter disrupting his classroom.

Peter hadn't said a word, didn't try to argue, he'd just bobbed his head up and down at the appropriate times. He knew this speech—he had had this talk many times before, and just like all the times before, he knew there wasn't much he could do about it.

Mr. Harrison had let him go after that, looking regretful as he watched Peter shuffle away, his messy brown hair flopping as he ran to his next class.

So yeah, Peter wasn't feeling too hot at the moment. He was making his way home as of now. He had been in such a rush this morning that he hadn't had time to put on his suit, and he had forgotten his web-shooters which he _always_ wore. So he was walking home instead of swinging. Because there was no way he wasn't going to waste what little money he had on a taxi, especially now that J.J.J. was no longer paying him.

The nineteen-year-old huffed out a breath, watching the way it misted the cold air. Oh yes, Peter had also forgotten his hoodie. So he was pretty cold. Today was really kicking Peter's butt.

He trudged to the side of an old lady walking her little dog. He kept his head down, staring at his feet and the cracked sidewalk as he walked. He was almost home, just a few more blocks. Then he was going to stuff a Pop Tart into his mouth and flop onto his worn mattress for a few hours before he had to don the red and blue of Spider-Man later tonight.

He rubbed his eyes as he walked, trying to wake himself up a bit. _Hey,_ he thought _, at least today was almost over, right?_ He glanced down to his phone, 3:25pm… _Okay, well half way over then._

It started to drizzle, making Peter's brown hair fall into his tired eyes. The people around him began moving faster, wanting to get out of the rain before it got worse. It did, the little droplets soon turning into a white sheet of wetness, soaking Peter to the bone.

Up ahead, Peter could see an older man slowly crossing the street. He had a fedora on, a worn brown jacket, and thick glasses over his shrivelled eyes. A bag was slung over his shoulder and hung by his hip, dripping with the rain. Peter had been watching him, wondering why the old man was walking around the city alone in this weather. Then his cane had slipped from under him, and the man fell forward into a puddle in the middle of the street.

Peter was half a block down, but he had seen it before anyone else had. The teen started jogging to the man, hoping he was alright, if not just soaked. As Peter was running, his spider-sense started ringing. It wasn't a low hum; it was something urgent. But it wasn't directed at him. That sharp pain at the back of his skull was directed at the old man lying on the ground up ahead.

Peter was almost to the man when the screech of tires on wet pavement rang through the air. His running had already caught the attention of a few people, some even running into the street to help the old man before Peter reached him. But that wet rubbery sound of a car had everyone behind him turning their heads in Peter's direction.

A large moving truck was racing down the street, the driver looking scared and as if he had lost control of the vehicle. Wide, frightened eyes looked at the half a dozen people on the road trying to help the old man. He honked his horn frantically, trying to get the people to move. But he was going too fast—not all the people could move out of the way. And even if they could, the old man wouldn't make it.

The sounds of people screaming mixed with the blaring horn and squeal of rubber. But Peter could only focus on his spider-sense. It was screaming at him, making his head spin. _He didn't think, didn't have time to think._

There were four people in the middle of the road, two trying to pull the old man up into safety, and one trying to run to safety themselves. The truck was close, _too close._ People all around were yelling, screaming, the rain pounding on the road and making everything echo off the dirty pavement below.

Peter knew he couldn't pull all the people to safety, not without his webs. _He couldn't think, didn't have time to think, didn't think._ He acted.

He ran forward in a burst of inhuman speed, flipping over the screaming people in the middle of the road. He grabbed the front of the truck, the driver shock-faced inside. The back tires went up a bit as Peter slammed himself into the vehicle. His arms and shoulder ached as he pressed against the speeding truck, his shoes squeaking on the wet road as he planted himself in front of the vehicle.

It pushed him back a few feet; everything was so loud, _too loud_ —screaming, everything was screaming—the truck, the rain, the people, the driver, his spider-sense, himself. They were all screaming. The metal of the truck dented under his palms and the scared people behind him scurried away from the vehicle. _Peter couldn't think, didn't have time to think, didn't think._

The screaming stopped. And aside from the rain, the street was silent. Peter set the truck back down with a heaving breath. The man inside was staring wide-eyed at him. Peter felt his heart pound, as his ears rang. He turned back around, to find everyone, _everyone_ staring at him—wide, disbelieving eyes and mouths agape.

His heart spasmed within his chest, and his spider-sense went on high alert within his skull. _Peter still couldn't think, still didn't have time to think, didn't think, shouldn't, wouldn't think. Never think._

So he ran.

He bolted from the scene—running through alleyways, hopping over dumpsters and trash, and past the other few people he saw. The rain and his feet pounded on the ground in rhythm, his head and heart pounding in sync, too.

He ran as fast as he could until he finally reached his apartment. He raced up the fire escape, not wanting to waste time going inside. He couldn't be in the open any longer.

 _Couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't._

He heaved his window open and flopped inside before slamming it shut and drawing the blinds.

He lay on the floor, his breaths and heart going too fast; _too fast._ His mind was going a mile a minute. _He couldn't think—so fast, so much, too fast, too much, shouldn't, wouldn't, couldn't._

His chest felt tight, and suddenly he couldn't breathe. His thoughts were begging to be answered, but there were too many; _too many._

His breathing became wheezy and strangled, short bursts of air leaving his quivering lips.

 _What if they got it on video?_

 _Would people recognize him?_

 _Would it be on the news?_

His head was spinning. And his vision blurred. He was gripping at his soaked clothes. They were too tight, _too tight._

He pulled them off, throwing them away from him. He still couldn't breathe. He was hyperventilating. _Can't breathe, should breathe, want to breathe, can't, can't, can't!_

He was choking; he was choking on his own panic. The butterflies of fear were eating him from the inside out. His heart was in his throat, and he was choking, _choking._

 _What if the people he knew pointed it out?_

 _What if they published his name in newspapers?_

 _What if people went after his Aunt May?_

The teen started coughing, rough, ragged painful coughs. But he still couldn't breathe! His heart twisted in his chest and he thought of all the people that would go after his loved ones if they knew who he was:

Rhino,

Doc Ock,

Electro,

Green Goblin,

Sandman,

King Pin,

 _No, no, no, no, too many, so many. Can't, can't stop…_

He was shaking violently now, from being half naked and soaked, or from his thoughts. He wasn't sure. The room was swimming and he squeezed his eyes shut. He still couldn't breathe, and the pain within his chest was becoming all he could focus on.

He was still on his side on the floor when he felt someone grab him. He flinched away, wheezing out a gasp. He lived alone.

 _Who was touching him? Did they already find him? That had been quick. Or maybe he had been in the middle of this panic attack for a few days now. Who knew?_

"—breathe, you need to breathe," the person said, and Peter wanted to hit them. He knew he needed to breathe, that wasn't the problem. The problem was that he _couldn't._

"You need to calm down," the voice said. It was a man's. But Peter didn't recognize it. His heart still spasmed in his chest as he tried to pull air into his aching lungs.

"Breathe," the voice ordered.

Peter whimpered; the small sound of distress barely escaping his choked throat, and he thrashed and trembled— panic too much, _too much._

A hand came forward, once again touching him. He yelped, sharp and terrified, and arched his back, trying to throw them off. The hand disappeared, and he curled up, curled up into the smallest ball possible.

He stayed there, cold and shivering. He still couldn't breathe.

"Hey. Hey, hey. Just calm down, alright? Calm down," the voice sounded again, this time a little frustrated.

"What is it? What's going on?" That was another voice, a female voice—different to the first. Peter heard a gasp.

"I—I'm not sure. He's _bleeding!"_ That was the man again.

 _Who were these people? Why were they here? Were they coming for him? Did they want to drag him away? Reveal his identity to the_ world _?_

Peter's throat tightened and he outwardly coughed, choking, gasping. He opened his mouth, needing, begging to breathe. _Oh God, please let him breathe..!_

"Help me over here!" voice number one yelled, and he heard running footsteps, before the face of a woman maybe in her late thirties swam into his blurred vision. He gulped, struggling against his constricted throat, as he took a raspy breath.

"Wh—who?"

"It's alright, you're alright, Spidey. Just calm down," the woman said, and he stared into her gentle blue eyes, as she knelt down to his level, something comforting, almost motherly about her...

 _No, no, no!_ _She called him Spidey. That means...that means she knew who he was. This..._ No! _No, this couldn't be happening!_

Peter whined in pain as his heart pounded again, spasming desperately in panic. His vision blurred as he once again met the woman's eyes. And in that moment, as the corners of his vision blackened, he knew he was going to pass out...

* * *

Nina stared back at the deep, frightened brown eyes and felt something in her heart break. They were wide, terrified, and so very young, and Nina was stunned with the knowledge that these were the eyes of none other than Spider-Man. It wasn't until the color started to drain from his face—skin turning white—that she snapped out of her moment of shock. The other man from the street who'd followed the boy out here—his name, she didn't know—quickly grabbed Spidey by the shoulders, large hands curling around his form, and rolled him out of his tight little ball, laying him flat on his back.

Nina watched as he grabbed the kid's face in his palms, and shook him slightly, trying to coax back his attention. His eyes had slipped shut, tiny gasped breaths escaping his from his lips.

Nina wasn't completely sure why she had followed the teen. She had been scared out of her mind as the truck came barrelling towards those people. She had stood frozen, her brain short-circuiting as she just knew that she could do nothing but watch, as those people lost their lives.

It had been amazing and mind boggling watching the gangly, skinny teenager race for the truck. Nina had thought he was crazy at first, insane to think he as one person could stop the oncoming truck. She had yelled for the kid to stop, _don't be stupid, don't waste your life!_

But then he had flipped over the people, slamming his small frame into the front of the truck in a way that all New Yorker's had seen before. In the same fluid movements that all New Yorker's knew belonged to the infamous wall-crawler, Spider-Man. Their hero.

It had gone so fast, everyone screaming as the rain poured onto them from the unforgiving sky. Nina had held her breath, stuck in place as she watched. And then just as fast as the teenager had saved those people, he was gone.

Nina didn't know why, why she had felt the urge to run after him. Why she felt it was her place, or maybe duty to do so. But she did.

A man, the one who was currently checking Spidey's pulse, had run with her, the two trailing after the spider as he hurdled his way over dumpsters and past the trash that littered the alleyways of New York.

They would have lost him if he had run more than a few blocks. But just when Nina was about to give up the chase, out of breath, and losing sight of the kid, they had watched as he climbed up the fire escape and into the window of a dirty apartment building.

She and the man (she really needed to find out his name) hadn't hesitated to climb their way up as well and check on the web-slinger.

Nina, however, hadn't been expecting the sight they had stumbled upon—a small studio apartment, with very little furniture, a couch pressed to the wall, and a small twin bed in the far corner. The lights were left off, casting the room in shadow, the only light source coming from the very small window which they had crawled through. And there, lying on the worn carpet was the kid, or, uh, _Spidey._

He had been clutching at his chest, wheezing and gasping for breath. You could see the way his bare chest constricted; trying to work, the muscles there struggling to pull air into his starved lungs.

Nina still hadn't known what to do. The man took over then, but Spidey only seemed to panic more. And now the two strangers were left alone in the silence, an unconscious superhero lying in between them, as the rain pounded on the window.

Nina's blue eyes scanned the teenager. He was so small. _Was this really Spidey? This,_ this _kid was their beloved hero?_

"I don't know what happened." The man spoke up a moment later. He had a large build, his shoulders wide, and limbs long. He wore a beanie hat atop his blonde hair, a few strands sticking out. A thick coat covered him, still wet from being outside. "But his heart is calming down, and his breathing is slowing."

She nodded, brushing her maroon hair behind her ear as she heaved a sigh. "T—That's good." Nina breathed out. She examined the limp teen in front of her. He had a deep gash on his right forearm, and long scratches along his torso. There was some bruising already forming there, she noticed. _How fast had that truck been going?_

"He's still bleeding, though," the man went on, looking concerned. Nina hummed in reply, getting up and searching for a cloth and bowl. She found an old worn washcloth in the bathroom under the sink, and grabbed a large pot; there weren't many bowls so it would have to substitute. Filling up the metal pan with warm water, she dropped the cloth in it, before ringing it out, and beginning to clean the teen's chest.

The two stayed silent for a moment, content to watch the sleeping form of Spider-Man, both probably still in shock that this boy was the same individual that saved their city so many times before.

"I'm Al." The man spoke up a moment later, his voice soft, but loud compared to the quietness that had filled the room before.

"Nina," she replied, swiping the thin chest before her, her movements soft, as she worked her way over to the gash in the teen's arm. The boy's breathing was low and deep now, a good sign. His hair was still damp; it was drying oddly, sticking up in wild directions, reminding Nina of her own son.

"Nice to meet you, Nina," Al replied, "although, we've certainly gotten ourselves into quite a situation here."

Nina couldn't help but chuckle slightly at Al's dry humor, but it didn't help to fill the quiet void now hanging over the room.

She started slightly from her thoughts as the kid let out a light moan as Nina brushed the washcloth over a particularly nasty cut. She let up the pressure slightly, fingers careful against the torn flesh.

"This is not where I imagined New York's famed hero to be living," Al said, somewhat thoughtfully, and Nina looked up at his words, her eyes gazing over the room in finer detail.

The place was a mess, run down. It was not the home of a wealthy person. The wood looked old, paint peeling in some places, and at a closer glance the door appeared as if it would fall off its hinges. There was a round, gray carpet lying over the floor boards which the kid currently lay on. The bed was unmade, the couch a mess of worn pillows.

Placing the washcloth in the bowl, she walked back over to the small sink and rinsed it out, washing her hands in the process. _If only she had some bandages..._

Searching around in the few cupboards, she tried to find something to bind his wounds with. She came up dry, until Nina finally spotted a well-used first-aid kit shoved into the back of one corner. Pulling it out, she opened it up quickly. Her heart fell.

The kit was used alright, so used in fact, that there was nothing left of any use within the plastic container, only wrappers and empty painkiller bottles remaining. Getting up quickly, she moved to the small fridge in the room, pulling it open as well.

It was empty, save a few cans of soda, and some left over take-out.

Moving back to the first-aid kit, Nina couldn't help but stare for a moment, until hot tears started to form in her eyes. She wasn't sure why she was crying, but there was just something about this situation that caused her heart to sink heavily in her chest, her spirits falling.

After a couple of minutes, she closed the lid, shoving it back in the cupboard with the rest of the kid's meagre belongings, and wiped the tears from her eyes. She'd made a decision.

"Al, I'm going out," she announced, standing up.

Al looked confused. "What? Where are you going?!"

"To put an end to this. I'll be back in half an hour. Look after him."

She didn't know why she was doing this, or why she was expecting practically a complete stranger to stay with the boy. All she knew was that she had to.

Moving back over to the small window, Nina climbed out onto the fire escape, looking back at the two. The boy now fitfully asleep on the floor, and the man she'd just met staring at her in complete shock.

"Don't go anywhere," Nina spoke, before disappearing from view.

* * *

Al stared at the spot where the woman, Nina, had been but a minute ago, before shifting his gaze down to the boy again.

He couldn't believe that this was Spider-Man he was looking at; he always imagined the hero to be much older, and maybe some kind of crazy gymnastics/ninja professional. He shook his head, blinking, and stared at the kid's face.

He was pale and looked incredibly tired, dark bags hanging under his eyes. He looked no more than eighteen/nineteen years old. There were a couple of small, healing cuts on his face, and what looked like electricity burns running down his arms.

 _That's right_ , Al thought to himself. There had been a battle with that glowing guy, Electro, deep into the early hours of the morning. It had raged on for hours, the police having to border off several city blocks. That looked like it had _hurt_.

Al eyed the reddened mark on the boy's forearm, it only confirming it all in his head. Al took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly.

Al couldn't help but checking back up on the wounds, they'd appeared to have stopped bleeding, Nina having done a good job cleaning them up, and the gash no longer looked as severe.

Moving his fingers, he softly pressed them against the teen's throat, re-checking his pulse. The kid swallowed in his sleep, shifting his head to the side, but his pulse remained strong and steady, nothing like the frantic beating Al had witnessed before.

Letting out another breath, he shifted on the carpet, trying to get comfortable, and just sat, the minutes ticking by, unsure of what else to do.

The kid's hair was still slightly damp, looking rather messy, and he ran his hand through it, smoothing it out, the sticky-uppy bits flopping back from his face.

Spidey hummed in response, curling his face towards the man's hand. Al froze, eyes widening, before he warmed, and began to lazily stroke his hand through the teen's drying hair.

That's how Nina found them, when exactly half an hour later she clambered through the window, several over-stuffed bags of groceries in her hands and one brand new first-aid kit.

"Where'd you go?" Al asked, pulling his hand away from the teen as he squinted at the new arrival.

"Grocery store," the dark-skinned woman answered, walking past Al to set her bags down on the kitchen counter. "The kid's got nothing to eat, and his first-aid kit was empty," she explained as the man continued to stare at her. "I just kind of figured it was the least I could do…" she finished lamely, turning around and beginning to put her items away.

Al hummed in response. He understood what she meant. The blond shifted his gaze back to the teen on the floor. If this really was Spidey, then they owed him a lot. Everyone did. But it was hard to repay someone of a debt when you weren't sure exactly how to do so.

A moment later, Nina came back with a roll of white gauze. The woman leaned down, applying some sort of ointment, Al wasn't sure what, before she wrapped the gash in the teen's arm, carefully tying it off and looking over to him. "Could you, uh..?" she asked, gesturing to Spidey.

 _"Oh!_ Yeah, yeah." Al pulled himself from his thoughts, before wrapping an arm around the hero's slight frame, and pulling him into a semi-hug so that the woman could wrap up his chest. The position was a bit awkward, the kid's face wrinkling in displeasure for a moment. Al shifted slightly before biting his lip, hoping that the teen wouldn't wake up with Al half holding him.

Once Nina pulled away, a slight smirk forming on her face as she examined her handy work, Al thought of just unwrapping himself from the teen and laying him back down. But the thought made him wrinkle his nose in disdain a moment later. "Do'ya, uh, do'ya think it would be okay if I laid him in bed?" the man asked his new acquaintance, a bit uncertain.

Nina looked up to the man's brown eyes for a moment, then back down at the bruised up face of the teen. "Yeah, I think that's a good idea." She agreed. Her own son, Drew, was probably around the same age as Spidey. The fact made Nina's stomach knot itself up. Spidey had been swinging around going on five years now, which meant, if he was as young as he looked, the teen had started fighting crime while still in high school. Don't get her wrong _,_ she was grateful. But when she thought of her own son doing the things she knew Spidey did, it caused her to shudder. _I wonder if his mother knows?_ She couldn't help but question. Even knowing that this young man was a hero, Nina couldn't help the desire she felt to take care of him, at least for the time being.

Al nodded his head, before wrapping an arm under the teen's legs, his other curling around his shoulders. Al prepared himself as he stood up, expecting to feel a strain in his lower back and knees as he carried the hero. But the teen was light; picking Spidey up and relocating him to his mattress caused Al little to no strain. The fact made his lips curl unhappily. "He's really light," he told Nina, as he placed his load on the bed, causing the old springs to squeak in protest. "Like, unhealthily light," he went on.

Al knew that really he shouldn't be worried; the teen must be in good shape in order to do his hero work. But now, seeing the spider unmasked, seeing that he was nothing more than a boy, and then seeing how he lived—on top of the first revelation—Al just couldn't help but worry.

Nina let out an unpleased 'humph' at that, crossing her arms over her chest as her lips puckered. The two adults watched the slumbering hero for a moment, both deep in thought, before Nina spun around, headed for the kitchen. "Well, we'll just have to fix that," she stated.

Al felt his eyebrows raise, a slight smirk forming on his face as he watched the woman march away, apparently on a mission. Al waited a moment, listening to cabinets being opened, hearing things being taken out before he turned back to Spidey.

He leaned down, slipping off the teen's soaked through shoes, seeing how worn they were in the process—the bottoms almost nonexistent, the laces fraying, the sides looking almost rubbed away. Al's father had always said that you could tell a lot about a man by his shoes. Not just by what type, but whether or not they were scuffed, shined, polished, or worn. He said that you could tell what kind of life that man lived simply by the state of his shoes. Al hadn't really ever thought about it before. But now looking at the passed-out hero, his falling apart converses in hand, Al couldn't help but wonder if his father had been right.

The blond set the sneakers aside a moment later, making sure to check the size before he did so, and set about tucking the hero in. Yeah, Al wasn't going to mince words; that was totally what he was doing. If someone had told the man that he would be tucking Spider-Man into bed yesterday, he would have asked them what they were smoking. _But well,_ now here he was.

Al lifted up a well-used fuzzy blanket, pulling it up and laying it on the skinny teenager. Only after doing so did he notice what was displayed on the front. It was a Spider-Man themed blanket, the hero's form sprawled out across it. Al couldn't contain his snort of laughter, smacking a hand over his lips as he stared at it amusedly. Al found himself wondering if it had been a gift, some sort of joke or gag given to the hero by a friend. It seemed most likely, and the thought brought a smile to the blond's face.

Al pulled himself away, walking into the kitchen to find Nina chopping up some vegetables. "What are you making?" he couldn't help but ask, as he saw some form of pink meat being cooked in a pan already.

"Chicken noodle soup," Nina answered with a smile. "My mom's recipe," she went on. "You wanna help?" she asked a moment later, stopping her chopping to glance at Al through a few strands of maroon hair.

Al shrugged. "Sure."

* * *

Peter awoke to the smell of something cooking, garlic, and the taste of chicken filling the air along with a few other things. The teen's lips curled upwards as he hummed to himself—his stomach growling. He loved Aunt May's cooking. And he was really hungry too. _When was the last time he had eaten?_ He contemplated.

The teen blinked open his eyes lazily, finding himself in his rundown apartment…Not back in his old bedroom in Queens…Wait, if his Aunt May was here and making food, then why was Peter asleep? Also, when had Aunt May come over?

"—oops...sorry," someone said from in the kitchen, the voice belonging to a man.

"S'fine, I got it," another voice answered.

Peter sat up abruptly, the events of earlier coming back to the teen in a rush. _Those people, they were still here. They were still here, and they were in his apartment, cooking?_ That's if what he was hearing and smelling were any indication as to what was going on.

"Mmm, tastes good."

"It should, it's my mother's recipe, remember? She was the best cook in town."

"Really?"

Peter was confused. These people, were they...chatting? Two strangers, making small talk in his kitchen. Cooking on his stove. The previous panic from before began to rise again, as he felt the telltale sign of nerves settle in the pit of his stomach.

"I might just cut up a bit more of this." The female voice caught his attention again from his wondering thoughts, as she reached across the bench. The minute he saw the unmistakable shimmer of a knife, he reacted instinctively, all helpful logic leaving his mind as he leaped and scrambled into the roof's corner in a clatter, pressing himself into the small crevice as hard as he could.

Both strangers paused in their activities, alerted by the racket he made in his irrational response, and turned, startled.

Peter watched as their eyes gazed over the bed, gasping as they took in its emptiness, before slowly moving up the wall. Both pairs, blue and brown, widened as they met his form, braced in fright against the corner.

They stared for a long moment, limbs hanging limp, as they looked in shock at the scene before them. After what seemed like an eternity, they finally shook themselves out of it, apparently accepting the fact that the teenager was clinging to the wall, a number of feet off the ground.

Peter's eyes flickered to where he remembered leaving his mask. Both their gazes followed his to the half-hidden piece of fabric under the bed before he snapped it back up to them. He saw a flicker of uncertainty in their faces; gauging what he was going to do. Peter was about to fire a sudden web at it, before realizing he didn't have his shooters...

Suddenly feeling at a loss, and defeated, he stared at his wrists, forlorn—he had no hope in saving his identity now. His secret was out.

His eyes snapped up again at the sudden sound of the stove being turned off, the woman having turned back to her cooking. She took a quick taste of something, before pulling a big pot off the burner.

Peter watched, transfixed, as she grabbed a large bowl from his cupboard, and began pouring a generous amount within. The man kept a careful eye on him as the woman worked, before she was plopping a spoon in the mixture, picking it up on a tray, and heading in his direction.

Peter tensed, trying to squeeze himself as far back against the wall as he could, brown eyes wide and alarmed.

The woman set the tray on his bed, before kneeling down, trying to seem as non-threatening as possible.

Brown eyes met blue.

"Spidey? Here, hun. I made you soup."

Peter gazed down at the bowl of warm, steaming soup, soft noodles, and meat gazing back at him—

Taking a deep breath, Peter looked up again. _No, no_ , he wouldn't fall for it, he wouldn't...

He looked down again, looked at the concerned eyes of the stranger, looked at the calculating ones of the man standing silently in the middle of his kitchen. Before he could help himself, his gaze was settling back on that inviting, warm bowl of nutritious—

He swallowed, forcing back the hunger as his stomach growled. His mutant body needing, begging to be fed, muscles tired, mind fuzzy. He licked his lips, swallowing again, and he didn't need to be psychic to tell that his company could see his internal battle playing out right before their eyes.

Trying to get his brain to focus, he looked again around the room, taking in his current home. Other than the cooking going on in his small kitchen, nothing had been touched. Not a single thing out of place. His mask, left abandoned after his midnight fight, still lay on the floor, the wide, glossy white eyes staring back at him. The rest of his suit, probably thrown completely under the bed, was still hidden. _Why hadn't they taken it? Why hadn't they searched everything, taken evidence? Pried into his private life?_

He was too tired for this, and although he'd now taken a short nap, he still desperately needed food to re-charge, to heal his wounds...

Losing his fight with the battle, he gave in, letting go of all logical concerns of his identity, as he shifted, before plopping down on the bed in a soft, agile crouch, not spilling a drop of the soup.

His dark eyes stared at the strangers for a second before he moved forward. He pulled himself up to the edge of the bed, letting his legs hang over the side, as the woman silently lifted the bowl up for him.

He took it in shaking hands; the spoon gently being pushed into his grip.

Blocking out all thoughts of the two extra people in the room, he dunked the silverware in the warm mixture. The delicious smell wafted up to his nose as he took a whiff, scent of garlic strong, before he lifted the spoon and placed a small amount in his mouth. He couldn't help but close his eyes at the rich taste, it warming over his tongue. His stomach grumbled as it slid smoothly down his throat. Slowly, he took another mouth full, then another. The room remained silent as he ate his meal.

* * *

Several minutes later, Peter sat with his legs crossed, silently watching the other people in the room with a now full stomach.

He studied them—their faces, expressions—trying to sum them up and figure out what they were thinking.

After a few more moments, the woman spoke up.

"How are you?" she asked.

Peter blinked, taken by surprise; that was the last question he was expecting to hear from them in this situation.

Peter licked his lips, thinking. _How was he?_

"Tired," he concluded, answering.

The woman nodded in response. "Is there anything you need? Do you hurt anywhere?"

"I—" Peter paused, for the very first time since he woke up noticing that the wounds he'd suffered... _weren't hurting anymore?_ Swallowing, he curiously felt at his side, only to find something blocking access to his skin. He looked down. His torso was effectively covered in neat, carefully placed bandages, the pain that had once throbbed in the cuts and gashes having faded dramatically. _"W—What?"_

"I bandaged them for you," Nina immediately provided to the startled teen. "And treated them. They should heal up just fine. Oh, and I bought you a new first-aid kit. The old one was empty."

Peter stared, simply stared, as realization began to dawn on him. _Just what had these people done when he was out? And not just that_ , _what had they done_ for _him?_

He looked down at the sheets then, fiddling with the cotton material. What exactly had happened?

"You...you saved those people. Stopped the bus. We, Nina here and I, followed you when you ran away. I—I found you, lying on the floor, in here, panicking. You passed out," Al explained.

Peter could practically feel the blood draining from his face, his chest beginning to tighten—

"Nina tried to bandage your wounds, but you had no supplies, so she went and bought some. After she'd fixed you up, I put you to bed," Al continued.

"Why?" The sound was choked, breathy, sounding from someone who was desperate, lost and confused.

"Spidey—"

Peter flinched.

—son," Nina corrected at his reaction, "You were hyperventilating, and then passed out. We couldn't... _wouldn't_ , just leave you here. You had no food, you were alone; we were concerned. It's the least any New Yorker could do for our favorite hero. You've done so much for us, this is only a small payment for all you've given and sacrificed. I...wouldn't have it any other way."

Peter stayed quiet, mouth opening and closing, breathing ragged, as he tried to figure out how to respond.

"You...you don't want to expose me? Sell my secret? Rat me out? Isn't that why you chased me down!? It was stupid, so stupid..." he trailed off, putting his head in his hands.

Both his "rescuers" stared at him. _"No!"_ they shouted in unison, mouths open, eyes wide, looking relatively pale all of a sudden themselves.

"I would—"

"We would _never_ —"

"Why would anyone do that to you? _You're this_ _city's hero!_ You mean too much to us. After all you've done..." Nina finished. "Half the people in this city would do anything to keep you safe."

She spoke so surely. Peter looked up. "They...they would?" The hope in his voice was undeniable, but his eyes shadowed. "But that doesn't make sense." He shook his head. "Everyone has always been after me. I—I have to keep hidden, not let them see me. Keep them safe..."

"Keep who safe, Spidey?" Al asked, with alarmed intrigue.

Peter curled his shoulders and turned his head away.

They both immediately got the message. There was more going on here than met the eye, and it was clear that the city's famous hero suffered more than they thought: than anyone thought.

They remained quiet for a long pause, until Nina once again spoke, tucking a stand of maroon hair behind her ear making a decision. "Look, I put the extra soup in a bowl in the fridge, okay? So you can have some whenever you need it. I might bring around a new batch every week and check up on you, make sure you have enough. Tell me if you ever run out." She scribbled down her number on a piece of paper with a pen she found near the phone. "Don't be afraid to ask. And if you need help, just shout. Al?"

"Ah, yes," Al answered, quickly snapping to attention, as he went over to also write down his number next to hers.

"Don't hesitate to ring Al if ever something's wrong. Now, we'll leave you to it. Give you some space. But you're safe Spidey, _okay?_ You're safe—"

"Peter," he didn't know why the words slipped past his lips, as he curled his knees up towards his chest.

Nina and Al both stopped, as there was a silent pause settling over the room. Before Nina spoke again, her voice taking on a softer tint. "Get some rest now, Peter, and we'll be just a phone call away."

The two adults slowly moved to the door, and she shut it quietly behind them, leaving Peter to his shocked and confused thoughts.

* * *

It was after that day, that New York's web-slinging hero gained some much-loved confidence. Nina's number, he'd found, soon came to sit placed right next to his Aunt May's, and was now a sequence he'd grown to enter into the phone on autopilot whenever he needed some advice that he couldn't consult his Aunt on. And Al, though the friendship was slower building and timid, had come to remind him of his Uncle Ben. He was becoming the support and rock he needed, especially in a hard time, often when things went wrong on the job. He'd give him much-needed assistance when necessary.

Peter had gotten used to coming home after a long, hard patrol, to a fresh, warm bowl of pre-prepared soup. On some occasions, it was sitting out in a bowl on the table, waiting for him. He never did really scrutinize how it got there.

When Peter looked back on that dreary, rainy day, when he has made a rash decision, he'd often wonder how these friendships exactly came about, but he'd learned not to question it, as he accepted the gifts he'd been given, whole-heartedly.

* * *

Peter was in a rush. He was late for class (again) and he couldn't find his bag. The teenager ran in a frenzy around his apartment, a cup of coffee in hand spilling over and onto his already stained carpet.

"Oh... _whatever!"_ Peter yelled to himself, giving up on finding his backpack, and instead, flung his front door open a bit too roughly, only to stumble when he kicked something laying on the floor there.

Peter eyed the box curiously, _had he ever gotten anything delivered here before?_ He thought. Well… _no_ …because that would require _money_.

Peter picked the package up, assuming that it must have been brought to the wrong door, only to see his name on the box in bold, black writing.

All thoughts about how late he was for class left Peter's mind as his face scrunched up in confusion over this _mystery box._ The teen turned around, kicking his door shut with a _'bang',_ and plopped down on the couch, the box set down on his bouncing, hyperactive knees.

Peter tore the box open, not wasting any more time. Bubbles of confusion settled in his stomach, but his spider-sense wasn't going off, so this probably wasn't a bomb sent to him by some villain… _probably._

As the main box tore away in Peter's excited hands, a new box was revealed—but this box slim, with a star on top and the word, _converse,_ on the side.

Peter felt his mouth drop open. The teen sat wide-eyed gawking down at the shoe box. _Someone had gotten him shoes?!_ Peter had been needing shoes for over a year now. Every time he tried to save up for them, something would end up eating that money away and Peter was left with his very old, very worn sneakers once again.

Peter opened the box, finding high-top, dark blue converses with red shoe laces and black accents. These looked really nice. Like _too_ nice. Peter was going to hug the heck out of whoever had gotten him these.

Peter's face scrunched up in confusion again. _Wait, who did get him these? And why?_ He stared down at his gift, before feeling a smile flitter onto his face. He had a feeling he knew who had gifted him these new shoes. And Peter would have to figure out how to thank them later.

But for right now, Peter was super late for class, and he had some new converses to break in…

* * *

 **Thank you all so much for reading, please tell us what you think.**

 **~AliciaRoseFantasy and Fernandidilly-yo are outta here! :P**


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